The Long Drift
by Loryn Wilde
Summary: When ObiWan is separated from his master and thrust deep into the wicked core of slavery, QuiGon will scour the universe to find him but both Jedi are about to discover just how big a place the universe can be...
1. Terrible Dawn

loryn wilde

Summary: When Obi-Wan is separated from his master and thrust deep into the wicked core of slavery, Qui-Gon will scour the universe to find him…but both Jedi are about to discover just how big a place the universe can be.

Rating: PG-13

Insanely huge thank you to Megan. :o)

Obi-Wan is 15 years old in this story.

**The Long Drift: Terrible Dawn**

The stinging light had become so harsh that it made his eyes water. Only when the tears began to leak past tightly squeezed lids did he realize they were closed. Obi-Wan opened them and immediately regretted it.

The light was white and scorching and it buzzed and was all around him and it was, oh, entirely too bright – 

His eyes snapped shut but he found the burning redness there too much to bear. He squeezed them tighter still and twisted where he lay, searching for relief. Panic blossomed in his chest when he rolled too far and abruptly fell off an unseen edge. He landed hard on a cold and solid surface with a loud thud and did not move.

Obi-Wan cautiously opened his eyes, relieved to find it darker where he had landed – which, he noticed wryly, was the floor. He pushed himself up and got as far as his knees before his vision swam and blurred. Nausea bubbled up inside of him but he fought back the sickness; the effort leaving him shaken.

Obi-Wan was tempted to sink back down to the floor – back to that blessed coolness, the firm and unmoving surface that was flat and long and sturdy – but knew that if he did he would not rise again soon. He gripped the side of the table he had fallen from and pulled himself up.

Once he got his trembling legs to support him he straightened. Obi-Wan found his body to be ridiculously weak and he just stood for a moment, gently shivering in the chilly temperature of the room and trying to get past the stubborn fuzz that clouded his brain.

His first instinct was to call on the Force to aid and strengthen him, but his efforts were not rewarded with its expected warm glow. He frowned, assuming he had been drugged somehow and set about tackling the challenge of escaping wherever he was without it. He emitted a soft and frustrated growl when he realized his lightsaber was gone as well.

There was a piercing ache at the base of his thumb in his left hand, near his index finger, and he rubbed at it irritably as he drank in his surroundings.

It reminded him of a surgical room – there were tools locked inside duraglass cabinets and sinks for cleaning and the stench of antiseptic was sharp and stale in the hum of ventilating air. There was an incredibly bright lamp above the table and he reached up for the button on its side and pressed it.

He was left with only normal light from the ceiling panels, a considerably weaker assault on his eyes, still sensitive from the time he had spent in the unconscious. A slightly more in depth inspection revealed steel cupboards and similarly made cabinets. The room was medical, of that there was no doubt, but it lacked the warmth of the temple's healing center. A spot of color caught his eye and he swallowed thickly, hastily tearing his gaze away from the basin placed atop one of the shorter cabinets. It was made of translucent material and he could all too easily see the spatters of blood coating its insides.

Obi-Wan swayed slightly on his feet but forced himself to move forward, trusting any momentum he might gather to keep him upright. With the movement came the staggering awareness of a powerful, thudding headache of bantha-like proportions that raged at his temples and he did his best to ignore it. There was a door at the far end of the room and he started towards it, trying not to focus on the curious and subtle tilting of the floor. 

When he reached it, it flew open, startling and sending him backwards. The youth landed hard on his tailbone and winced. He craned his neck to look upward at his visitor.

It was a man and Obi-Wan guessed that he was of lightly mutated human stock, judging by the ugly green splotches dotting his hollow cheeks and the overly long ears, a sprinkling of black hairs on their fleshy tips. He was tall, probably as tall as Qui-Gon, but much gaunter.

And when he pulled his lips back into a fierce grimace of a smile, there was a cold gleam in his eye that told the padawan he wasn't going to be as kind, either.

"I hope you weren't too set on going anywhere," the man growled and disappeared from view. Unable to stand Obi-Wan scooted back farther, eyes desperately searching his surroundings for something that might pass for a weapon. When the man returned seconds later he dragged something long and heavy with him. The padawan blinked away the insistent fuzz that clouded his sight and his breath caught in his throat as he saw what – or who, rather – it was.

"Oh, Foli," he moaned, watching as the man dragged the female Rylian citizen-turned-warrior into the room. His tall captor dropped her at Obi-Wan's side and grunted. "The neural blast fried her." He nudged her onto her back with the toe of his boot. "That's never happened before." Without another word the man left, activating the door lock behind him.

Obi-Wan turned away from the body, from the staring eyes flung wide open in death. Blood had dried brown at her ears and nose. The young Jedi reached out with a trembling hand and gently closed her lids before crawling away. He brushed his fingers up against his own ears, feeling the rough scrape of drying blood, and wondered what damage the neural blast had done to his other two companions. Flecks of red peeled away and fluttered to the floor.

* * * *

"Master Jinn," Quat said, his gentleness gruff and awkward sounding even to his own ears, "Maybe you should have a look at the bodies. We're still collecting, but…" He trailed off as the Jedi was already shaking his head.

"No. Obi-Wan is not dead."

The shorter but still physically imposing man scowled. "You can't know for sure – "

"I do!" Qui-Gon snapped, and pain flitted through his expression so quickly that Quat was unsure if he had seen it at all. The Jedi calmed himself quickly. His tension and worry were getting the better of him. "I would know if my apprentice had been – killed."

"But not where he is or what his condition," Quat picked up sourly, his voice a low growl.

"No."

The two men stood in stony silence. Qui-Gon searched their surroundings using all of his senses, sending tendrils of query through the quiet bond while Quat watched him skeptically. The stocky man shifted his weight off his injured leg and released the heavy and impatient sigh that had built in his wide chest. The gravel crunched sharply underfoot and he finally spoke, his tone flat and with brevity.

"Master Jinn, I am grateful for the help you and your apprentice have provided – all of us are – though I can't say this battle has been a complete success." He thought he saw the Jedi stiffen slightly at that but could not be sure. "We lost a lot of people these past few days and we have a lot of work ahead of us."

The Jedi did not look at the other man but gave a curt nod. "I understand. Your people have suffered a grueling existence these past months; perhaps with the great sacrifice made on both ends at this battle, Minister Wol will reconsider his rather – stern – expectations."

Quat chortled bitterly, "Perhaps," and squinted at the stretch of fields around them, dotted sparsely with trees and foliage until the brown and green blur of forest took over a few kilometers away. The surviving people of Gloms milled about their grim tasks, creating bloody lines of carnage out of the bodies of their fellow citizens. Trying to create some semblance of order out of the chaos around them.

Patients spilled out of hastily constructed healer tents, some lying as still as their dead companions, some gripped with spasms in what Quat knew to be their death throes.

He was restless.

Quat wanted to help. He _needed_ to help. He threw the Jedi a glance before starting off. "But that's not the point. We don't need you anymore. Go find your boy."

Qui-Gon gave a short nod, a vague indication that he was listening. The pale blue of his eyes was fixed on a speck on the horizon, the modest town of Gloms. Somewhere in his weary mind he registered that the Republic cruiser he and his apprentice had arrived in was docked there. He was tired and aching, his injuries minor, but he and Obi-Wan had fought beside the townspeople for more than two weeks. This last battle – he hoped it was the last – had gone on for three full days.

Three days. A jumbled rush of memories consisting only of the most primitive of instincts – staying alive. And then he and his apprentice had been separated. Qui-Gon's inability to communicate with the boy had begun over a day ago.

Long, graying hair had come loose from its thick clasp and fell limply about his haggard face and taut shoulders. He stared bleakly at the pink sky; his mind numb, feeling strangely detached. He knew he should go back to help, see if he could assist the healers in any way. Perhaps Obi-Wan was only in one of those tents, comforting some wounded citizen.

As much as the Jedi wanted to believe in that possibility, he knew it simply could not be true. Obi-Wan's Force presence was no where in the area. Qui-Gon had looked behind every tree and boulder, searched the dark recesses of every cave, his heart pounding with the fear of finding the broken body of a ginger haired youth sprawled facedown in the dirt. That impish grin hovered in his thoughts, teasing him with its prolonged silence.

He wondered if he could make one last sweep of the area and still return before dark.


	2. No Sign Yet

****

The Long Drift: No Sign Yet

Obi-Wan gave one last tug on the thick leather straps that bound his wrists together and gave up. They were certainly not going to give anytime this cycle. A maddening buzz teased his ear before he clumsily swatted the giant fly away. It circled the air a couple meters away before speeding back to his head. He brought his hands up again with an annoyed growl and was rewarded with the sharp sting of a switch on his back.

"Shut up!" Naz snapped, shaking the switch at the boy menacingly, "And stop squirming before I knock your head off your shoulders." The green splotches on his face had darkened; something Obi-Wan had come to recognize as a sign to be wary. The slaver's cruel, sickly yellow eyes made another cursory sweep of the crowd as he muttered irately, "Where is that flaming idiot? He's never on time."

Obi-Wan settled back on his haunches and ignored Naz's grumbling. He focused on keeping cool. They had only been outside for twenty minutes but the youth's hair was already damp with perspiration and beads of moisture trickled down his bare back. The air was humid and thick and Obi-Wan was desperate for a drink but pride made him loath to ask anything of his captor. 

Naz had a slack hold on the leash he had secured to the loop of leather fixed around the boy's chest but Obi-Wan knew better than to run away. According to the slaver, he had implanted somewhere within the padawan's body a chip that, if activated, would stop his heart. Without his Force abilities Obi-Wan had no idea if this was the truth or not but had no desire to test its veracity through an escape attempt. He would simply have to bide his time until a less threatening solution presented itself.

He wondered for not the first time that week if the tall man beside him had lied about capturing Maube and Paf – the other two Rylians he had fought with, besides Foli. They were brothers and Obi-Wan knew he would be dead without them. He and Foli had been run into the forest and were surrounded when the two males found and saved them. Quick thinking, timed detonators, and plenty of yelling had their pursuers making a hasty retreat.

A slight frown fluttered across his features as he wondered if the brothers were still alive.

But he remembered what Naz had told him.

They were gone, and he was never to think of them again.

Were they dead? he had asked.

Naz shot him a cold glare before responding. "They shouldn't be. As far as I know, they're entertaining an old friend. Now, forget about them."

Another frown – this one wistful. He hadn't even been given a chance to help them escape much less say goodbye.

A sudden jerk on his leash and Naz ordered him to stand. Obi-Wan did so – after a short pause of quiet defiance – and glared at him.

Naz sneered down at him, "Don't you give me any flaming looks like that again or I'll put blinding implants in those pretty eyes of yours."

Obi-Wan snorted and looked away, tipped his head up in an exaggeration of somber dignity (fashioned after his own master's stance). A heavy blow to his kidney made him cry out and stumble forward.

"You're no flaming Jedi _here_," Naz spat. "Keep your eyes down."

Blue-gray flashed as the youth straightened, squaring his shoulders. "I am always a Jedi," he said firmly.

The green splotches turned so dark their color was nearly impossible to discern from black. Naz's hand shot forward and he wrapped long fingers around the boy's neck. He landed a sharp cuff on Obi-Wan's temple with his other hand and forced the boy down to his knees.

"I told you not to open your flaming mouth," he hissed, his pale yellow eyes reduced to sparking golden slits, anger transforming their dullness into something frighteningly intense.

Very little oxygen was able to make it past the iron grip and spots were soon dancing in Obi-Wan's vision. It fuzzed and he stopped struggling to save his depleting energy, sparks of true fear alighting within him for the first time since waking in that room aboard Naz's ship.

The slaver abruptly let go just as the youth was prepared to relinquish his grip on consciousness. The rush of air burned his aching lungs and he collapsed limply against the gravelly side street, shutting his eyes against the merciless glare of the sun. Obi-Wan narrowed his focus to the simple act of breathing. The dull roar in his ears faded, as he slowly became aware of a third presence. He opened his eyes into thin cracks and peered upward through his lashes.

A wide and extremely round man stood over him, speaking to Naz.

"…seems a little out of it, don't you think?"

Naz nudged Obi-Wan with the toe of his boot. "Get up." He tugged the leash.

The Jedi knew there would be trouble he could not afford to suffer if he did not comply. So, limbs trembling, he climbed to his feet. His knees shook dangerously and he swayed gently. The heat seemed worse. The sun was bigger. Had to be. It was everywhere, reflecting back at him off of everything with blinding brightness.

"He learns _very_ quickly," Naz stated proudly.

"Hm."

Obi-Wan squinted – that made the brightness not so bad – and watched the newcomer warily. He had light pink skin, pointed teeth, and the padawan could count at least four chins.

"He was a Jedi, you say?" Nerves made the voice rise in pitch only a fraction.

Naz threw Obi-Wan a quick glare, as if daring him to speak out again, and responded, "Yes. But his magic has been, ah – restricted. Now, if you have need of it…"

"You can shut it off?" the man asked, surprised. He met Obi-Wan's eyes briefly and smiled.

"Block it," Naz explained.

"Ah. Lovely." He touched Obi-Wan's cheek and the boy forced himself not to jerk away, settling instead for a cold glare. "Has he been trained at all in the arts of giving pleasure? Or is he only a worker?"

This time Obi-Wan _did_ jerk away.

Pleasure? His stomach did flip-flops. The last thing he had expected was…

"Well – no, not that I know of," Naz admitted, then hastily added, "But he did live with the Jedi. Who knows what they might have taught him?"

"Yes," the man said thoughtfully, looking down at the wide-eyed apprentice appreciatively. "Who knows."

It was then that Obi-Wan realized he might have to go to extreme measures to remove himself from his present predicament.

* * * *

Obi-Wan curled his body around the portable heat generator, hugging it to his chest. It was ancient and the highest setting that could be reached was simply not enough in the chilly hold. Naz had hastily beaten him across the shoulders with his switch and threatened him with more before tossing the young Jedi into the dark room for the jump into hyperspace

The slaver had been less than pleased when Obi-Wan had made his threats. The youth had not been able to say much before Naz forcibly silenced him, but the pink skinned buyer was not at all keen to know about the severe and gruesomely violent consequences he might suffer at the hands of a certain Jedi Master if he chose to follow through with a purchase. For the first time in his life, Obi-Wan was grateful for the general ignorance of the galaxy on the subject of the Jedi Order.

The man had decided to "think about it." He promised to get back to Naz later.

Obi-Wan was injured and cold, but still unsold and back on the same ship he had left Gloms in. He held no doubts that Qui-Gon would find him and soon everything would return to normal.

He dozed a little, unable to sleep the night through on the cold, hard decking. He stared out at the blackness, a hand to his bruised throat, and let the thrum and vibrations of the ship's engines fill him. A spike of sorrow coursed through him as his thoughts inevitably turned to the area in the back of his mind where there had been, and should still be, a warmth. His master's presence had, as the Force's had, become a rock, a constant, even when everything around him seemed to be falling apart. Now, with both ripped from him, Obi-Wan was left with nothing that seemed to matter, nothing to cling onto. He had never felt so desolate or alone. He closed his eyes and slept.

When he next woke the lights were on, one flickering erratically, and a plate of gruel was on the floor nearby. He shivered and pushed the broken heater away, then crawled toward the food, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles and joints. He crouched before the plate and dipped his finger in. Obi-Wan made a face and pulled the finger out, wiping it on his leggings.

The gruel was cold and held the texture of settled sludge. He stared at it distastefully, again wondering what was being put into it to keep him from accessing the Force – the drug didn't seem to have a taste and if it did, it must have been overpowered by the all consuming blandness of the gruel itself.

His stomach growled, just long enough and just loud enough to remind him of how very hungry he was. He frowned and worried his bottom lip.

Obi-Wan swatted the plate away before he could change his mind. It flipped over and the gruel splattered across the floor in gray and wet glistening lumps. He sat back against the wall folding his arms over his bare chest. He could survive without food for a while. There was no way Naz would allow him to die by starvation – the slaver had already invested enough money in him with the supposed chip that threatened to stop his heart if he fled.

Obi-Wan would not be allowed to die unless it was absolutely necessary. He rubbed at the still sore spot at his thumb.

Besides, maybe if the drugs wore off soon enough he could sense the foreign object in him and cut it out. Then, there would be nothing to stop him from unarming Naz and sending a message back to Coruscant. Qui-Gon would come for him and everything would return to normal.

Obi-Wan shivered in the chilly stillness around him and thought of home.

* * * *

"I'm sorry," Celeste said and distress fairly edged her words. "I'm sorry, Master Jinn. We should have said something – I should have said something. It was careless of me not to."

The longhaired Jedi stared at her blankly before gathering himself. He thinned his lips. "How long has this information been circulating the town? Obi-Wan and I arrived over two weeks ago – " He stopped speaking and stared at her, waiting for an explanation that he already knew would never be good enough.

To her credit she did not look away and the stocky man standing beside her, Quat Brul, was rather impressed. He had faced the absolute bottom of his planet's metaphorical barrel and still could not bring himself to face the man who had offered them so much, only to receive this tragedy in return.

Celeste hesitated slightly before masking her face with determination and plowing ahead. "We've known for some time, Master Jinn. We even have the ship's serial number and make. Only two of our civilians have actually seen the man and returned. As far as we know he's been picking off both sides of this fight the whole while. At least seven of our people have disappeared over the past four months."

"Ten, now," Quat muttered. "And then there's the boy."

"I don't understand," Qui-Gon sighed, allowing his gaze to settle on the dusty wooden floor, his hands braced at his sides. "How can you be so sure this man is enslaving who he captures? And why has no action been taken to prevent it from happening?"

Quat and Celeste exchanged glances before she answered. "Master Jinn – I understand that this all must look so terrible; if we had done something this may very well have been prevented.

"But the truth of the matter is, we're at the center of a war. We've only been able to spare a few people – at great risk, I might add – to keep an eye out for this bastard. I'm telling you right now, there is absolutely no pattern to his visits. We don't have the money to fuel the few ships we do have and take a joy ride around the planet…"

Celeste winced. Her tone had become increasingly snappish. Had she no compassion? Composing herself, she threw the big man an apologetic look and picked up. "Tobi and Miles are the only two who have seen him and come back. They'll have the most information for you. I'll have them brought in as soon as they report."

All were silent as Qui-Gon soaked in this information. He nodded before turning away and stalking out of the tent, needing to be alone. Needing to think. The sky was a smoky purple hue, deepening in color as dusk approached. He idly trailed away from the encampment, keeping in sight but feeling himself drawn back to that great and beautiful forest. Under the lush canopy and behind the sturdy wall of trees it was nearly black, as if night had somehow crept in unnoticed, stealing the life from the one place that should have been thriving with it.

He placed a hand at his side, resting it lightly over the hilt of not his own lightsaber, but the one he had nearly missed in his last desperate search for Obi-Wan. A soft glint of dying sunlight had caught his tired eyes and he discovered the weapon wedged loosely under the twisting root of a gigantic tree.

Obi-Wan had been kidnapped. Was that the word for this situation? He could not bring himself to accept enslavement. Obi-Wan had been kidnapped before. It made him cringe, but at the same time he was comforted. The boy had been kidnapped before and always returned in one piece; a little rough around the edges perhaps, but still – he had returned.

* * * *

Thank you, Lady A. for catching that spelling error. That was embarrassing. Completely my fault. Grift was something of a tenuous title, now it's drift. Got a problem with anything else?! :oP


	3. Farther Out

The Long Drift: Farther Out 

Corbin Naz was not unfamiliar with the concept of patience. In his most illegal occupation, he exercised the virtue, as some called it, on a near daily basis. When he needed it, he had it in great supply. In circumstances like these, however, he hardly gave it a thought.

His worn boots stomped heavily on the decking of his ship as he stalked to the hold where that boy – that flaming _Jedi_ – was. Almost a month and no sale. Slaves had come and gone. That damned Jedi had even attempted to overtake his ship. He had clubbed Naz hard over the side of his head with one of his empty food bowls and nearly succeeded with locking the slaver in the hold.

Naz unconsciously rubbed the vaguely sore spot with a grimace. That had been too close. He had grabbed the boy by his ankle just as he had stepped out into the corridor. The slaver grinned. Sometimes being thickheaded wasn't so bad.

"And that's just what you are!" the boy had shouted after a brief struggle. Naz had eventually gained the upper hand and thrown the youth against the back wall. "That's the only reason you're not headed for a cell on Coruscant right now – your thick skull!"

Flaming Jedi…

He decoded the lock and palmed the door open, light from the corridor cutting into the dark room.

"You!" he seethed, yellow eyes sought and found the figure pressed into the back corner.

"Me?" a dry voice croaked.

He stepped into the hold, not stopping until he was towering over the youth. "You!" His gaze moved across   
the small cell and came to rest upon yet another bowl of gruel flipped over some odd meters away. The runny, gray mush had splattered up onto the grimy steel wall and, now hardened, posed the annoyingly tedious task of removal. He glared back down at the boy beneath him, who sat with an amused smile on his cracked lips.

More food was wasted that way…

"All right. It was funny at first, but let's get level on one thing – " He crouched down before the boy.

"And what thing would that be?" the voice rasped.

What a flaming sense of humor. "They teach you that at your temple?"

Brows scrunched together slightly. "What?"

But Naz shook his head. "Forget it," and after a moment added, "It's not in the food."

Despair, or something like it – disbelief? – fluttered over the bruised face. "What?" Whispered.

Naz pointed one long finger at the bowl across the room. "The food. It's. Not. There."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The words were firm but soft. Fading.

Naz laughed out loud. "You think you're drugged – but you're not. I don't go half-assed when I get lucky enough to nab a flaming Jedi."

The boy's eyes flickered over to the gray wet lumps on the floor. "You mean…"

"You've been starving yourself for no flaming reason. I'm surprised you didn't realize sooner. It never helped, did it?"

"You force fed me." Naz could hear the boy's resolve crumbling. He shook his head at the feeble argument.

"Not until I had to. You should have guessed."

Dark eyes hardened and sought him in the dim light. "What is it?" the boy finally asked, his words clipped.

Another bark of laughter. "It's flaming delicious how you think I'd even dream of telling you." Naz stood and glowered down at the boy, a jagged grin suddenly cracking his face. "Idiot."

He turned away and stepped back out into the corridor. He wasn't afraid of that kid. The flaming idiot was too weak to offer up any real struggle now. Putting a hand up to the door lock, he paused. "I've had some calls. With luck you'll turn into a hefty pile of credits tomorrow." He smirked. "Eat up," and the door swiftly shut, the locking mechanism falling into place with an audible click. 

* * * *

Obi-Wan stared blankly out at the dim light, not liking the cold shock that was burrowing its way deep into his mind.

Idiot… 

__

Idiot.

Should have known. Should have realized… Qui-Gon would have known. Qui-Gon would not have been so damned blind. So far he had accomplished nothing. It had been… how long? Too long. Obi-Wan couldn't remember. The days were hazy. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes he was on planet; sometimes in space.

It was all just a long blur.

Despair, having gained a strong foothold in his heart, had already begun its climb; the dull thud of loneliness became more pronounced, again grappling with some part of his mind that had been neglected and left unused for Force knew how long. He reached for that spot where he knew his master should have been, and knew even without his power that it was deteriorating, slowly rotting and falling apart.

Obi-Wan dropped his head to his hands, digging palms into tired gray eyes until he saw sparks. What more could he do? It seemed that despite all of his defiance, he was nothing more than a vague annoyance to this man. The Padawan wondered if he were simply digging himself into a deeper hole.

* * * *

Leather straps bound Obi-Wan's wrists together tightly in front of him and a heavy collar of the same thick material seemed out of place on his rigid shoulders. He stared hard down at the ground, at his bared and dirty toes in the dusty side street, desperately attempting to put together a plan that would get him away from these people. Naz was beside him, haggling with his customer – the one Obi-Wan knew would buy him in the end.

The sun warmed him considerably – were all outer rim planets hot? – but never penetrated the icy dread that coated his heart. He was being _sold…_ How would Qui-Gon find him now?

Perhaps, he reasoned, it was better to stay stationed on one planet. It might even help his master locate to him more quickly. And maybe this man who Naz was speaking to would listen to him – hear his story and give him access to a communication unit.

Obi-Wan smiled in relief. This wouldn't be so bad, after all. He could easily link up with the temple and give them his location. His master would come for him immediately. Everything would be fine.

A sharp tug on his Padawan braid made him wince and refocus. He squinted up into the thin-faced man standing over him.

"What's this?" the man demanded. "Is this a joke? This is your proof?"

"It means he's a Jedi!" Naz insisted. "Don't you read?"

The man sneered at the gaunt slaver. "More than you would, I'm sure." He straightened, smoothed the rumples in the rich fabric of his shirt and then adjusted the long cape draped over his shoulders. "I do not have time for this, Sir Naz," he said curtly, casually glancing at the chronometer on his wrist. "I have already reached and nearly breached my mistress' budget for the day, and we honestly don't need another greedy mouth running about her house."

"Wait just a flaming minute – "

"No," the man said severely, exchanging a glance with his silent assistant, a more stout, darkly skinned man. "Stars, I think I've had enough. We should have gone to one of the establishments downtown…

"I'm nearly perspiring, Naz. It's hot. You've dragged me off to this dreadful part of the city with the promise of a real deal – "

"Blast it, Monparte! This _is_ a deal. A flaming good one. He's a Jedi. And don't give me that 'downtown' nerf shit – you know as well as I do that they only sell the worst slave stock there."

Monparte sighed melodramatically, checking his chronometer once more. "Very well."

Naz grinned triumphantly.

"Prove it."

For a moment Obi-Wan thought the slaver might become violent. The splotches on his face darkened considerably with irritation and his yellow eyes narrowed into those all too familiar slits.

Through clenched teeth, he grated out, "Listen to what I'm saying, idiot: his powers are blocked. If I give him access to them he could turn us to ash in seconds, probably just by thinking it. Use your big head, you flaming ass!"

The man looked more bemused than angry. He chortled lightly in response and waved his hand in a vague gesture of dismissal. "Don't be upset, Corbin. Of course you know I'll purchase him. I'm only teasing. Our young master needs a servant."

Naz seemed to deflate at hearing this and the splotches on his gaunt cheeks lightened to a yellow green hue. The taut muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxed. "Blast, it Monparte," he repeated, more quietly. "Don't flaming do that to me. You wouldn't the believe the trouble I've had with this…this…"

"'Flaming Jedi'?" the other man offered wryly.

Naz barked with laughter. "Yeah! Flaming Jedi. He's a flaming handful but I'm sure your boy will wear him down. What happened to the other one you bought for him? It was a girl, wasn't it? Rii'Diarian? I thought I sold her to you."

"What? Oh." Monparte shrugged his thin shoulders, then complained, "Hell if I know, Naz… it's not important. It's not as if I'm the child's caretaker."

"Right, right. Not important." He grinned viciously down at Obi-Wan. "I'm finally rid of you, you great prat. I knew if I stuck with it, it'd work out for me in the end – "

"By the stars, Naz, stop babbling to that slave. I want to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. The stench is horrible. Just let me sign."

* * * *

Most of this chapter is unbeta'ed. All mistakes are the sole fault of Loryn. :o( Sorry about the long wait – next one will be much sooner.


	4. Ever Circling Skeletal Family

**Long Grift: Ever Circling Skeletal Family**

"I must speak with Mistress Fauve right away."

Gilbar Monparte cocked a brow at the young slave standing before him and did not withhold the long-suffering sigh that escaped him.

It was the so-called Jedi Naz had sold him two cycles ago. Monparte believed in the Force about as much as he believed in the compassion of others.

 "Oh?" he said, wondering what in all the names of the Gods could be so important. He decided to humor the boy. Brushing past him he said, "I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Mistress Fauve has just lain down for a nap." Much to his annoyance, the slave scampered after him.

"Could you wake her?"

"Of course not!" Monparte quickened his pace and started down the grand staircase. It was a beautiful piece of architecture, spiraling and widening the long way down until it reached the bottom where the lip of it spilled out into the wide lobby. Its rails were made from the majestic chuka tree and intricately hand-carved by the natives of Erez. He lightly trailed his hand over the deep grooves as he descended. "Mistress Fauve has just had her medicine – she's very tired and cannot be disturbed."

The slave frowned. "You mean spice?" he said without thinking.

Monparte whirled on him and grabbed a fistful of thick ginger hair. "No," he seethed, tightening his grip painfully. The boy's mouth hung open in shock, and he was precariously balanced on one step. Monparte shook him and the boy stumbled to his knees. "No," he said again, "Medicine. Who told you spice?"

The slave's mouth opened and then shut quickly. He shrugged. "I can't remember."

Monparte pressed his lips into a thin line, finally releasing the boy with a sharp shove. The slave tumbled down a few steps but managed to catch a rung in the handrail before he fell too far. Gray eyes set beneath a brow furrowed in misunderstanding stared up at him.

"Sir, I just need to speak with someone. I apologize if I've offended you…"

"What is it you need to tell your mistress?" Monparte snapped, suddenly so very sick of this particular slave. "Why aren't you with Master Peyton? You are not to leave him – you've been reprimanded for that before."

The slave winced. "I – I know, but he's taking a nap and I just thought – "

Monparte's knuckles whitened around the handrail. "What do you need to tell your mistress?" he repeated icily.

"I – " The boy was obviously flustered. He straightened on his knees, not standing from the steps just yet. "I am not a slave," he finally announced. "I am a Jedi and I need to get in touch with the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. Will you give me access to an interplanetary communication unit?"

Monparte blinked once at the formal tone before bursting into an uproarious laughter. Tears of mirth sprang to his eyes and he wiped them away, gasping helplessly for air around the noisy guffaws. "You – _you! A Jedi! Naz must have insisted it so badly that he convinced you…" He grinned down at the boy in amusement. Everyone who heard the stories right knew Jedi were only wrinkled old sentients with powerful minds, not young boys with skinned knees. "__That I will tell your mistress!"_

*  *  *  *

Obi-Wan hunkered down underneath the freezer's ventilator, avoiding the worst of the constant blow, and tucked his frozen hands under his arms, crossing them over his chest. He could still hear his new 'master' on the opposite side of the door, a heavy slab of metal he had spent the last ten minutes trying to push open.

Peyton Fauve was older than the Obi-Wan, by at least a year or two, but had the mind of a young child. He was, essentially, a twelve-year-old with the body and urges of a young man. And Obi-Wan was becoming quite sure that all the Jedi patience in the galaxy would not hold up against this one spoiled boy.

The Padawan's plan to speak with Gilbar Monparte, the man who had purchased him, had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked. It seemed he had caught the man at a bad time… He would try again as soon as the chance presented itself.

"Are you cold yet? Are you cold?" Shrieks of excitement, dulled by their passage through the thick door, were accompanied by loud thumps of Peyton pounding on the sturdy metal.

"Peyton, please!" Obi-Wan called, as loudly as he could and hoping his voice would not be totally absorbed by the thrumming ventilator, "This is not a game!"

"Are you cold?!"

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. Was it his imagination or were tiny icicles growing on his lashes? "This is not a game, Peyton! I am very cold!" Risking a more powerful chill, he moved out from under his shelter and to the door, turning his back to the frigid gusts. His thin clothes did nothing to protect him, and the increasingly violent manner of his shivering began to worry him. "Peyton?"

There was a long pause and the Padawan became fearful that the other boy had left him. But then:

"Obi?"

Obi-Wan swallowed his swelling fear and answered, "Yes?" wishing for the wobble to leave his strained voice.

Another pause. "You're mine."

Obi-Wan gaped at the frost-covered exit. This whole escapade was about proving who was in power? It was a ridiculous thought, a childish one – it was Peyton to the letter.

The Padawan heaved a sigh, clenching his teeth together in an effort to end their chattering.

"Yes, Peyton. But you're…" How was he to handle this? Peyton obviously thought of him as some sort of big toy, the way he knocked him about and treated him. He finally settled with, "You're breaking me, Peyton."

"What?" the other boy demanded.

"You're breaking me!" Obi-Wan voice came out strained and he waited until he was sure he could continue in as calm a manner as possible. It was so cold. "You're breaking me… Do you remember Shiva?" Other slaves had told him of the Rii'Diarian slave Peyton had owned previously – he had crushed her to death in some awful game created on a whim – the kind of game in which only Peyton knew the rules to. Obi-Wan did his best to avoid those entirely, but it was difficult sometimes. The other boy was too used to getting his own way and would not be swayed or distracted for long.

  
"Shiva is broken," Peyton announced. "That's why Mother gave me you."

"Yes," the Padawan conceded, "You don't want me to break, do you?" His knees felt weak.

He thought Peyton had left again when the door suddenly opened and he spilled out into the numbing warmth of the kitchen. He lay on the tile floor, his shaking even more pronounced, unable to move or stand.

"Obi. Obi…!" The voice had a touch of alarm. "You're not broken. Mother will be mad!" A big hand snatched a fistful of his flimsy shirt and jerked. "Mother will be mad, Obi."

The Padawan closed his eyes. "I just need a – a minute, P-Peyton."

  
"The food people are coming back, Obi. Get up!"

"Peyton, p-please!" Before he could stop him, Peyton began dragging him on the floor.

"You were supposed to get up. You're in big trouble, Obi."

*  *  *  *

Obi-Wan stood sullenly at the base of the huge tree Peyton climbed, trying to stand in such a way so his shirt would not stick to the lash marks on his back.

"Sir Monparte doesn't like you, Obi," Peyton called down.

The Padawan's cheeks were still red from the punishment. He had to begrudgingly accept that no one here believed him. The rustling in the leaves above him paused and Peyton shouted, "Obi?"

"I'm right here, Peyton!"

"Oh." The boy giggled and resumed his ascent. "I thought you had left. You're not supposed to leave me."

"I know, Peyton."

"Because you're mine."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Yes, Peyton."

"You left me earlier to bother Sir Monparte and they whipped you."

"I know, Peyton." He was unable to keep the edge out of his voice and he snapped, "I know, I was there."

The older boy climbed higher, disappearing into the thick leaves overhead. Obi-Wan glanced about nervously, hoping they would not be seen. He would bear the brunt of whatever punishment Peyton's mother deemed fit to dish out – her boy could do no wrong, after all.

He decided that there was no getting around it – when Peyton had it in his head to do something, not much could pull him away from the idea – and sat down at the base of the tree, gingerly fixing his shirt to escape the sharp sting of his wounds. Obi-Wan's eyes fell shut and he evened his breathing, forming mental images of his home to help him calm.

He recreated his room in his head, then the short corridor to the den and kitchen… Qui-Gon was there, at their computer terminal, peering down his nose at the soft glow of the screen and lightly stroking his short beard. Obi-Wan broke out into a wistful smile – that was his master. Muttering soft damnations at whatever he did not agree with and turning to tell his Padawan how things in the galaxy really should be. That was Qui-Gon.

The Padawan knew his home would be all the sweeter when he finally returned…

*  *  *  *

His spine ached like it never had before.

His knees were raw from the carpet beneath him.

His neck was so stiff that even the slightest movement caused him pain – 

He had been there, kneeling on the floor of the House's main room, for hours. Obi-Wan could feel the glare of the great family's eyes; their anger was an almost physical presence. They had questioned him endlessly, picking his answers apart and dissecting them as if the situation was more complex than it was – so much more than an achingly simple mistake.

Peyton Fauve had fallen from the tree. Obi-Wan had climbed up after him, hoping to keep the boy safe from just such an accident. Staying in the frame of mind that Peyton was his responsibility kept him sane enough while he waited for this nightmare to end, but it seemed he had only made things terribly worse.

With one leg hooked over a high branch and both arms hugging the trunk of the tree, he had hardly been in a position to grab Peyton when he fell sprawling through the air, tilting backward and landing hard on his neck.

Obi-Wan had cried out when he heard the resounding snap of bone, and slid down the rough bark to find that he was too late – of course. Peyton's eyes were open and the blank stare was a chilling reminder of the life lost early on in this terrible, terrible mess. His hands had hovered over the cooling body, trembling with shock, as he completely forgot everything around him.

_He had failed._

Failed in his personal quest to be a Jedi in these circumstances, to go on and do what he had been conditioned and trained to do his entire life. To protect those who could not protect themselves – and Peyton had simply fallen. A victim of gravity, Obi-Wan supposed, and that was unusual since gravity had been defied for centuries. It was meaningless now – sentients could hover, fly, skim through the air as if it had solidified beneath their crafts. The boy had simply _fallen but that had been enough._

Someone had seen and alerted the family, because Obi-Wan heard the muffled pounding of footsteps through the grass soon after, crossing the lawn, and he was bodily jerked up and pushed away while two of Peyton's brothers took his place at the fallen boy's side.

And now the questioning was finally over. Peyton's only parent, the Great Mother, regarded him silently, chewing on her ever present stick of spice. In anger, Peyton's brothers had hit Obi-Wan and he felt vaguely ashamed of his haggard appearance in the presence of their rich clothing – but then again, he was just a slave, after all. His cheek throbbed heatedly where one had backhanded him but he made no move to soothe it through touch.

"It may very well be true," the Great Mother began, her words slow and methodical, slurred by the spice stick tucked into her wrinkled cheek, "That you could not have helped our Peyton. I am partly to blame – I gave you to him – I should have had better judgment. A life has been lost due to my rash thinking." She waved off her children's soothing hands ("Oh, no, Mother…"), and said, "But I am certain that none of us – especially myself – could bear to see you in our house again, could bear to have you serve us any longer. Peyton was very dear to us all…

"A very close friend of mine, Bazil Grey, is willing to take you on for a short while. Regrettably, he is moving off-planet soon, but can use the extra help in his fields."

She paused, puckering her wrinkled mouth around the sticky sweet brown stick, and let her ancient, faded eyes slide half shut. "We are very disappointed," she said gravely, tiredly, and despite his position in their household, Obi-Wan's heart ached for their loss.


	5. Muted Cries

A/N: Er… sorry for the insanely long wait. Assuming any of you were waiting, anyhow… But here it is, and I can pretty much promise that most of the rest of the story is probably all sort of planned out. Again, unbeta'd – these in between chapters are giving me a… well… a fucking headache. A part of this may look familiar to two of you in particular, just blame that on my uncreative self – and penguin, this chapter is most definitely for you. Hope it's okay?

**The Long Drift: Muted Cries**

Bazil Gray was not a very big man. He was of no substantial height, rather thin, with pale gold hair cropped close to his head and nervous blue eyes. He stayed in his rooms much of the time – letting his business run itself and his deeply trusted hired hands keep his papers in order.

Obi-Wan would see him sometimes scurrying about in the halls, and had tried speaking to him once, though that was a very un-slave-like thing to do. The man had simply stared at him, something close to horror whitening his face.

"I'm – I'm sorry, sir, but I just need to know…" Obi-Wan tried explaining his situation, stepping closer to the man, palms out to calm him. Gray edged backward against the wall, twisting his handkerchief in long, nimble fingers.

"Oh, dear," he murmured, "Oh, dear…"

Someone Obi-Wan recognized as a field overseer came upon them, then, grabbing the young Padawan and dragging him away with a most sincere apology to the stricken master.

Once out of sight the man growled, "That's a week's hard labor, boy. Just who the hell do you think you are, scaring the man like that? Mistress Fauve sent you, didn't she? Well. We'll be getting rid of you soon enough, thank the gods. A whole lot of you… Come on, then. Pick up your feet."

The sun was absolutely brutal on the young man's back and he paused in his work for a moment, dragging the back of his hand across his brow. It came away drenched in the sweat that was stinging his eyes, wetting the roots of his hair. He rolled his head back, trying to work the unbearable stiffness out of his neck.

Other slaves around him snuck in quick breaks in the same manner, most of them much more subtle about it. He reached his arms up over his head, popping his shoulders and quickly bent back down again to grab his shovel, returning to work.

There had to be some end in sight to this. It had been three days digging. Digging deep enough so the next shift could come in and find the vegetables that thrived underground. They took two years to develop, and poor planning had let the land dry out and the dirt grow stiff.

"Hey."

Obi-Wan turned at the word, squinting in the scorching sunlight to find its source. His gaze finally settled upon a human girl and boy standing behind him, staring at him with dark and guarded eyes. The young Jedi's attention shifted to nearby overseers patrolling their working boundaries, but no one was watching. Looking back to the two who had called him he hefted his shovel in his aching, blistered hands. "Hello."

The two exchanged quick glances before stepping closer to him. Obi-Wan saw that they each had deep, coarse sacks slung over their shoulders, the openings of which lay waiting at their hips. He glanced around anxiously.

"Is it time to go?" the Padawan asked them.

"Soon," the girl said blandly and moved forward, crouching down on the ground beside him and reaching into one of the recent pits he had dug. "You're Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan's brow creased. "Do I know you somehow? You both look familiar," he admitted.

The boy choked up nervous laughter and squatted down in the dirt beside the girl, craning his neck to regard Obi-Wan from the ground as he picked the brown vegetables out of the ground.

"You come from the Great House Fauve."

Obi-Wan didn't think the house was all that great, and almost told them so, but an overseer close by made him wary and his humor wafted out of him with a heavy sigh as he heaved the shovel back into the ground. "Yes. I came from there."

"So did we!" the boy exclaimed, but the bright smile that had lit his face shriveled into a thin line as the girl elbowed him sharply. "Sorry," he whispered.

Obi-Wan watched the short exchange curiously. The boy had light brown hair, short and somewhat bleached by the sun, and a thin but soft featured face. His eyes were liquid brown, like the spice drinks he had seen Mistress Fauve have sometimes. His skin was white but appeared to be taking the brutal sun better than Obi-Wan's. The Padawan grimly glanced down at his red arms, frowning.

He never had tanned well.

"We recognized you out here," the girl explained, "and thought we should come on over. Only four others got sent and they're inside." She shrugged and her smile was empty. "Gets lonely out here, huh?"

The girl went by Spyre and the boy Roark. They had, somehow, remained together for four years. Obi-Wan talked with them shortly before being herded off the fields by the overseers and sent to his cabin with the nine other slaves he shared it with. Once there he made it on unsteady legs to his cot and collapsed boneless into a dreamless slumber.

*  *  *  *

Was the ache ever going to leave him? The pain of his overworked muscles and the exhaustion in his body had distracted him from it before, but…

The headache was certainly at full throttle now. And oh, Force, but the nights were worst. When it was quiet… when nothing was there to distract him. When he was left alone with his memories and his mind had time to wonder if this would never end. Would Qui-Gon ever find him? Would he ever find Qui-Gon?

He dared not move – any stirring would only worsen the pain. Each inhalation made his brain dry out and crumble inside of him, turning it to gritty powder and each time he breathed out stars burst in his retinas, an explosion of screeching madness as the part of him that had always had a connection to something more clawed at his skull. That part of him was starved now, begging his body for the nourishment it was never meant to be without.

Obi-Wan lay curled on his side his hands clutching the sides of his face, fingers making tiny white imprints in his reddened flesh, eyes staring unfocused at some invisible horror before him, lips parted…

A soft moan in the darkness, then a whisper.

"It's killing me."

*  *  *  *

Obi-Wan knelt before two of Bazil Gray's consultants as they spoke quietly. He let his thoughts drift, appreciating the roof over his head. His sentence of hard labor had ended the day before and now he was back doing errands for the house. His skin was still sore, had even blistered in some places, but Spyre had found him some cream to put on the hurting flesh. It helped a little.

The Padawan had quickly learned that it was easier to do as his new masters said without question. He was tired of exchanging pain for minutes of stubbornness that got him no closer to freedom or Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan did not like how he had to keep telling himself that his reasons were just. He remained unmoving with his head bowed – though his neck was fast stiffening – on the floor and waited to be recognized. Even without the Force he could easily sense the worry in the consultants' voices, see it on their faces.

"_Four days, Enri. He's been in there four days."_

"No one has seen Amit leave?" the other man asked with a frown, though he already knew the response. His gaze rested blankly on the slave's bowed head, his focus turned inward.

His companion shook his head, eyes wide with urgency. "No. He can't have – What I mean to say is… You don't think he's…?" His question died away.

"Again? Certainly not. We're leaving this wretched planet in two weeks. Surely he has more sense than that…" Enri did not believe his own words and did not expect his partner to. "Boy," he said to Obi-Wan, who shifted slightly to prove the man had his attention. "Go to the kitchens and fetch your master and his guest a pitcher of wine."

Obi-Wan risked a glance up, meeting the consultant's eyes. "But I've been instructed to keep away from his bed chambers." The lost Padawan hesitated. "That _is where he is, isn't it?"_

Enri waved a dismissive hand, his rings glittering finely in the wall's lamp lights. "Never mind what you have been told. Bring him some wine and return to our office immediately afterwards. Do you understand?"

Obi-Wan nodded, fighting the angered scowl that wanted to leap onto his face. They acted as if he were little more than an old 'droid. He climbed to his feet and began a hasty walk to the kitchens.

He had needed a little help from one of the cooks who was, Obi-Wan thought, overly dramatic about having to leave his post for a short time. That had delayed him some but the bottled alcohol now stood flanked by two glasses on a glinting silver tray that Obi-Wan held carefully with both hands. He did not want to spill it. He cautiously climbed the stairs and crept down the empty halls to Gray's bedroom.

The young Jedi finally came to a stop at the double doors of the slave owner's room and, hefting the small burden in his hands to one arm, knocked. He waited for a response, wondering just what it was that Gray's two consultants had been discussing earlier. What had the man done before that was so foolish?

A muffled thump from the opposite side of the door made Obi-Wan alert. Silence followed and he knocked again.

"Master Gray?"

No answer.

Obi-Wan's immediate thoughts were that the man had come to harm. But he wasn't by himself, was he? Why didn't his guest, Master Amit, answer? Did this have something to do with the conversation earlier? Obi-Wan put the tray down on the floor and placed his palms on the wooden door. There was no handle, no lock… Bazil Gray treasured his privacy and this entire wing of the household was generally off limits to anyone else. Locks and handles would interfere with the delicate design of the polished wood.

If the man _was in trouble, and Obi-Wan saved him, would this be the instance that might free him?_

Obi-Wan pushed.

The door creaked open and the boy stepped slowly inside, his gaze sweeping the room.

"Master Bazil," he called. "Master Amit?"

Still, silence. Obi-Wan strained his ears for the slightest of noises, trying to sense even the breath of another living being in the chambers.

A sudden boom behind him and he felt his skeleton rip out of his skin and jump right back in again. He wheeled around with a cry.

It was the door!

Obi-Wan forced his rapid breaths to calm, deepen, and his thundering heart to slow.

"Relax, Kenobi," he muttered, feeling as if the walls soaked up the very sound of his voice, it was so quiet. He moved forward, still sensing no other presence and wandered to a lavish chest of drawers. One was partially open and he peeked in, curious.

What he saw inside at first confused him, then caught his gut in such a frigid and squeezing grip he thought he might be suddenly and violently sick.

In the drawer…

Hair – all different colors, dried and shriveling, cracking and split and broken…

And nails – yellowed and curling, splintered with age.

Bile stung his throat, spraying its acid touch at his insides.

"Oh, gods," he gasped forgetting for the moment where he was. The hair was of all different colors, lumped together in a dried, fraying, multicolored mess. The strands were long dead and the nails were yellow and curling, stiff as corpses, flecks of brown blood dotting them. "Oh, gods!" he cried out, fright confusing his senses.

What was he to do?!

"Oh… Oh, dear. Oh, dear." The wavering murmur behind him made him leap nearly to the ceiling and Obi-Wan whirled around to catch sight of Bazil Gray standing in a newly opened doorway, his body naked except for a pair of under-trousers. Crimson covered him. Just past the man the Padawan glimpsed a nude body sprawled on the floor.

"Master Gray," he whispered hoarsely, his voice lost to him. "What… what are you doing?"

The man seemed to shrink against the doorframe, shriveling up like the dead hairs in the drawer. "I had to… What are you doing here? Once more. I had to. Oh, dear." He started to shake his head in tiny jerking movements, staring wildly down at the floor. A low whine filled the room and Obi-Wan knew at once that he would never forget the sound of that horrible keening, no matter what happened. "Oh, what have I done?" The whine grew louder until the man's voice cracked. His fingers, finding no handkerchief, twisted about each other and Obi-Wan could hear the popping of knuckles from where he stood.

"I can't let them go," Gray whined. "Do you understand me? I can't let them go…" He turned his eyes on the body in the connecting room, and something Obi-Wan thought he recognized as peace fluttered over the tight features briefly. The Padawan realized that what he had first defined as simple neuroticism in the blue gaze was really something deeply disturbed. And Obi-Wan also realized that people in the house _knew about it._

"You've done it before," he rasped, recalling the terrible image of the drawer in his mind. It was still there – just to the right of him. Open. "You kill people! You keep their… their… Oh, gods." He backed away from the man who shivered in the doorway. He had to tell someone. But the consultants knew. _They knew! And they had sent him up here, anyway!_

Obi-Wan sprinted for the door and did not slow down, slamming into it and using the force of his impact to jar it open. Bazil Gray's high pitched wailing thinned the air and strummed through his brain. The wood bounded against the wall soundly and Obi-Wan was in the hall, paintings and lights whizzing past him as he ran…

At the stairs he met two men who stopped him, assured him everything was going to be quite all right, and led the frightened boy away to a room he had never seen before.


	6. A Troop of Echoes

**The Long Drift: A Troop of Echoes**

Two and a half months without his Padawan and Qui-Gon Jinn thought he might lose his sanity down the vacuous hole that had become their bond.

He had not returned to the temple before setting out to search the galaxy for the boy, deciding to start on independent planets nearest to the Republic's core and then spiral outward to its farthest, darkest reaches. The master had been living out of the simple Republic cruiser he and Obi-Wan had left for Amund in and noticed some time ago that the supply of credits in his account was in no danger of being completely depleted. He realized that someone - probably Master Yoda, if not the entire council - had been silently feeding money into his account. He was grateful for their support and told them so on his next transmission - they were required of him at a minimum of every two days.

The long flights in space were when it was worst for him. The soft rattle of the ship's engines became maddening after a short time. Constant as the sound was without a single interruption of a second pair of boots, an eager young voice wanting to know why, even the gentle breathing of the one who had been at his side for the past two, nearly three, years.

During these times alone in the vast deepness of space Qui-Gon's great shoulders sagged with deep sorrow and his strong, noble countenance fell, seemed far less imposing. He warily lowered himself into the pilot seat even though there were many hours left in his journey to Mopeda. He settled his gaze at the viewport, letting his eyes lose their focus as he stared blankly out at the white streaks of hyperspace.

He turned to a small compartment and it opened with a soft click. With trembling hands he smoothed out a crumpled leaf of durasheet on his lap. Next, he took out a thin stylus and held it over the page. If the disappointment he met on each planet visited was bad - this was agonizing.

The sheet was a list he had compiled of known planets that had a market for slavery. He put the tip of the stylus down on the page next to the name Llan and paused.

Qui-Gon never knew for sure if he was leaving his Padawan behind. Never knew if he should have waited minutes more, just in case he were to catch sight of a boy with ginger hair traipsing across a docking platform to meet him, a giant and heart breakingly charming smile on the young face. He never knew anything for certain besides the soft whispers of the Force and its gentle nudges.

The stylus moved and blacked out another planet's name.

What if Obi-Wan had seen him on Llan but had been unable to attract his attention?

He refolded the durasheet and placed it back in its cupboard.

What if he had just missed the boy?

He tossed the stylus in after it and shut the compartment door soundly.

What if, indeed.

*  *  *  *

A week in that box was what he had been told. Left out in the sun for a time, the metal cooking his skin. He had howled for someone – anyone – to help him, please, please help him, but no one came. Water was dribbled through slits in the surface and Obi-Wan nearly swooned each time the sweet liquid kissed his cracked lips, thin slices of some hydrated food were pushed through holes mere centimeters high. Soon he forgot all about the scene he had witnessed because it no longer mattered. There was nothing he could have done, and nothing he could do. No matter what he would have liked to think, he was only a slave here. He could not change that.

And now Obi-Wan Kenobi resided in an entirely different complex – the grounds were secluded and reached far; the house was looming and crooked with a foreboding presence. The man who owned it was probably something close to human, no one knew for sure. It was difficult to tell sometimes in the outer rim; more races mixed and bred together, changing partners as often as they changed their ship's fuel.

The young Jedi was worried, there was no denying that. Still weak and in a mild state of shock from the horror he had stumbled upon, he was grateful to find two familiar faces in this new place, at least: Spyre and Roark.

It seemed they had both been assigned to kitchen duty while Obi-Wan had been told to remain in his role as a simple house servant, errand boy, a go-getter. One fresh change of clothes and trading in of his old collar for a newer, sleeker one later and he was sitting alone at a table, away from the other slaves who spoke in low voices to each other, spooning stew into their mouths and nearly cleaning their bowls with their utensils.

A friendly thump on his back and he winced.

"Sorry," Roark muttered, flushing gently as he sat across the table from the lost Padawan.

Spyre settled in next to her friend and smiled, joyless. "Better eat up. We helped make this piss."

Obi-Wan dropped his dull gaze to the stew waiting for him, a brown skin forming at the top, and responded dryly, "I hope you don't mean that."

Quiet laughter took them all by surprise and they each bottled it up quickly, taking spoons in their respective hands to begin a despondent meal. Spyre and Roark ate in silence, but Obi-Wan brought nothing to his lips, staring bleakly down at his hand.

Had his knuckles always been that pronounced? His joints so easy to see? It was happening, he thought, finally – he was beginning to waste away. The work, the pain, the fruitless hope – all were teaming against him, it seemed. And his mind was worse. There was a sharp pain in his hand still, one that should not have been there. He knew it could not be real, and sometimes it faded away to almost nothing when he rubbed it just so, but…

Obi-Wan felt crippled without some attachment to the Force or his master, he felt as if he were drifting alone in an oblivion of bruised worlds, each worse than the last. He wore himself out at night trying to hear something in that ringing silence of his mind, something familiar. Hear it and feel it so he could cling to it as a life preserver. He would not even use it – Obi-Wan felt that he just needed to know it was still there. Just that would keep him going for some time longer.

An older slave, a sharply angled woman with a nose and chin that stuck out oddly from her face as if wanting to meet at some point in front of it, rapped her knuckles on their table. "Master's coming," she grunted quietly, and moved on.

Obi-Wan straightened in his chair, closing his misery behind walls so sturdy and thick no lack of Force of presence could wear them down. He set his hardened gaze on the small dining hall's entrance. The young Jedi felt as if he was gradually eroding away, but he would be damned if he let anyone see it.

*  *  *  *

Carn Vuyis swept appraising eyes over the boy who stood in the entrance to his private quarters, deciding that the gods must be quite satisfied with him – or at least someone who looked very much like him. He beckoned the boy to come closer and fingered a lock of dirty brown hair. Noticing a pair of stormy gray eyes staring at him he arched a brow at the blatant disrespect. He tugged harshly in the filthy hair and forced the slave's head down.

"Don't gawk at your betters," he hissed. "Apologize." The steeliness of his voice left no room for disobedience but the boy hesitated anyway.

"I apologize," The slave said finally, and, though Vuyis should have been contented by the boy's complaisant, if forced, concession, he frowned at the curious undertone. Most slaves were completely submissive by the time he acquired them, but the boy seemed to hold his authority in disregard.

"How long have you been a slave?" he questioned, suddenly very curious. The youth seemed to straighten under his hand.   
  


"I am _not a slave."_

Vuyis landed a vicious backhand across the boy's face. The slave tumbled away and lay in a heap on the floor, staring up at him icily. The owner allowed a small smile to broaden fully until low chuckles escaped. He would take great care to break this one. But the smile soon disappeared, replaced by a mask more notable, but no less cruel, than the smirk which preceded it."

"You certainly look like a slave," he spat and wrinkled his nose. "You're filthy. Gods know you stink like one."

Was that a slight blush that crept across the boy's cheeks?

Never taking his gaze from the youth he strode to the giant double doors. Opening them, he caught the attention of one of his senior servants. He pointed a long finger at the boy, still lying at the center of his floor. "This slave has displeased me. Flog him and bring him immediately back to my quarters."

"Shall I clean him for you, Lord?" the man asked.

"No," Vuyis answered, throwing the boy a wolfish grin. "Don't bother. Just bring him back to my rooms."

*  *  *  *

When Obi-Wan was dropped to the cool wooden floor of Lord Vuyis' chambers and left alone, he would have wept with relief had he not known his troubles were not yet over. His back was aflame with agony, hot and burning, and the fire was relentless, subduing him with every move he made. He attempted some pain relieving techniques, but without access to the Force it was all but useless.

They did help calm him, however, reminding him of what he was. Obi-Wan opened himself to the pain as he pushed his body upward, accepted the dizziness which made his head swim and the floor tilt. He welcomed – begrudgingly – the way the room's light seemed to fluctuate, irritating his eyes which were startlingly sensitive.

He wavered on his feet, but made it to the huge double doors made of polished wood – real wood. Obi-Wan took a moment to brush his fingers over the deceptively smooth surface and thought for an idle moment that the council should invest in real wooden doors for all the rooms in the temple.

He shook those thoughts from his mind, as they were trivial ideas and he had no time for them. He found the lavish, mechanical handle; the polished gold color reminding him of the way sun shined off the hair of a woman in the garden, outside. Her hair was long - rather pretty, he thought - and hung loose, tousled slightly by a cool breeze which swept through the large enclosure from time to time. Thinking back, Obi-Wan seemed to recall another who had the same shade mane as the woman – one of the overseers who had whipped him.

The young Jedi squeezed his eyes shut and fought for control of his thoughts. They were scattered far and wide, and he felt a touch of despair then, feeling as if he was deteriorating on the spot. He pushed down on the handle, ignoring the burn it brought on his torn back, and leaned into the door. It began to creak open – all too slowly – but it was opening, nonetheless.

Obi-Wan cried out as someone grabbed him by one wounded shoulder and jerked him back, knocking him to the floor. The huge door was slammed shut and the noise resounded loudly throughout the bedchambers. Obi-Wan raised his eyes to meet those of Lord Carn Vuyis, who stared down at him with an odd look on his sharply angled face.

"But you just *got* here," he said, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached down to help the apprentice up.

Weakness washed over the padawan and Obi-Wan went boneless, too exhausted and pained to struggle.

"Please," he tried, moaning at the sting at his back as he was peeled off the floor, "I need to speak with my master." His head felt swollen and heavy. The Padawan's eyelids drooped. "I need…"

The last sensation he felt was of his overheated body sliding along the chilly wooden floor.

*  *  *  *

Vuyis made sure the water coming from the faucet was uncomfortably hot before plugging up the drain. He then turned hungry eyes on his new slave and said wryly, "You are quite filthy, my pet. You are in dire need of a cleansing."

The boy was a bloody mess and his tile floor was staining red but that hardly mattered – in his experience, humiliation was the key to breaking a spirit. He grabbed hold of the youth and roughly dragged him forward. The slave struggled but his efforts were weak after being beaten so and Vuyis had only to slap him a few times across the face to quiet him.

"Listen, Pet, you are mine, now. And I refuse to be served by such a filthy mongrel. I'm going to bathe you now, and when we're finished you'll sleep at the foot of my bed, because that's what pets do."

The boy stared up at him with a blend of shock and disgust in the blue gray eyes and opened his mouth to protest, no doubt, but a quick backhand from Vuyis silenced him. Blood trickled out of his nose and the corner of his mouth as Vuyis began to strip him naked. He had considered dumping his new pet in the bath fully clothed, but the disgusted stare he received moments ago had changed his mind. Vuyis tossed aside the bloody clothing and stared down at his prize.

The youth lay trembling on the cool tile floor, pale skin and bruises gleaming in the white light of the lamps. Vuyis, taking quick advantage of this overdue moment of quiet with his new slave, ran a hand up the length of one long, coltish leg. Noting the golden colored fleece at the boy's inner thigh he spared a quick glance up to the dirt and blood stained face. He realized that what he had first perceived to be brown hair was actually quite clearly run through with soft red hues, the dirt had only obscured it.

"Lovely," he breathed and suddenly could wait no longer. Ignoring the youth's humiliated and pained cry, he pulled him up and tossed him into the tub.

The boy thrashed in the hot water and Vuyis quickly jabbed his thumb into one of the deep welts on the slim back. The thrashing immediately halted with a stifled cry and the youth resorted to barely contained squirming. Vuyis grabbed some soap chips and rubbed them over that soft skin, working lather into the dingy hair. He shoved the youth's head under water without warning and only let him back up when he was sure all the soap was completely washed out.

The boy sputtered and choked, coughing up water nearly pink with his own blood. He was grateful for the dunk, however, unsure if he would ever forgive himself if he let this man see his humiliated tears.

Vuyis grinned and reached into the water, intently gazing into the wide blue gray eyes. He stroked one of the lean thighs and said, "You'll have to learn to groom yourself one of these days, my pet, but for now – I don't mind helping you in the least."

*  *  *  *

The night was deep, spilling in and coating everything in the room with its thick, inky blackness. The moon was lazy this time of year, merely tossing its thin blanket of dim, ethereal glow on top of the shadows, but not obliterating them. This wing of the mansion was silent, far away from the hushed bustle of the kitchens where slaves hurried to prepare meals for the day shift. If anything were to happen in the bedchambers, it was a sure thing no one would hear it unless Vuyis wanted them to. The house communication unit built into the wall remained silent all night.

The lord smiled in the darkness, nearly giddy with himself. He hadn't felt this way in years. He knew the boy was there – could hear the short, fragile breaths – but rolled over in his lush bed anyway, letting one arm dangle down the side until his fingers brushed against soft and thick hair – clean hair – still damp from ablution. The head pulled away but Vuyis quickly grasped onto one bare shoulder, then ran his hand down the length of the slender arm. The skin was prickled with a bone deep chill.

"Aren't you chilly, Little One??" he crooned.

The whispered no had him letting go and rolling onto his back, shaken with silent laughter. Lord Vuyis stretched and clasped his hands over his chest.

"Very well, Pet."

In the morning he had his breakfast brought to his room and ordered the house to leave him and his new pet at peace for the day. Without rising from bed he began to eat and called the boy to him.

The slave stood defiantly in the center of the room, glaring. Hands were planted firmly over those slim hips and the fire that flashed in the smoldering eyes was enough to make Vuyis groan aloud with excitement.

"Join me in my bed," he said, managing to add a dangerous inflection to his words, "or I'll whip you myself. You cannot have recovered from your last punishment so quickly."

The slave had the gall to ask, "Would that be that beating or the bath?"

Vuyis blinked in disbelief then threw his head back with loud guffaws of highly amused laughter. "Take your pick," he managed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He sobered and looked squarely at the young man. "It certainly doesn't matter to me, though I'd be a liar if I told you I won't garner a bit of pleasure from drawing blood out of that beautiful flesh of yours." He searched the boy's eyes for any sign of acceptance, but found nothing. He patted the bed and said severely, "Come."

The boy looked away from the lord, locking his eyes on the far wall, but went forward. He walked with his head up and his arms crossed over his chest. As soon as he was close enough Vuyis grabbed him and pulled him on the bed.

"Affection," he growled, pushing the struggling youth down, "We need to work on your affection." He forced the slave to cling to him like some absurd and living shawl. "Haven't you ever seen the way pets linger in their masters' wake? Just praying with whatever primitive language they may have that they'll be spared even a glance? They circle their masters' legs, love them, want them – "

"You want me to circle your legs?"

He cuffed the slave sharply on the side of his head. "Do not anger me," he growled, "It is in your best interest not to do so.

"Do you want to eat today?" He held up a chunk of bread then mopped up runny yolk from his tarin egg with it.

The slave said nothing, didn't even respond with a glance. The smoky blue gray of his eyes remained locked on the ceiling.

Vuyis harrumphed and ate the bread himself. He continued his breakfast in silence with one hand on the slave's chest to stay him.


	7. Slipping Away

**The Long Drift: Slipping Away**

The pain coursed through his arm, maddeningly consistent with the pulse of his heart. Every beat, every flare of heat snaking up his arm, every stab of agony only served to push him deeper into his mind's abyss, into despairing isolation

Obi-Wan Kenobi stared blankly into the mirror, unbelieving. Could someone change so much? Just how long had it been, anyway? He stood alone in the refresher, dirty clothes stripped from his body and in a pile on the floor beside him – and just stared.

His reflection gazed back just as emptily, the eyes hidden back in sockets ringed with bruises and dulled by the dogged life he now led. He clutched his aching hand, willing the pain to die away for now. His eyes moved downward, and he brought the unhurt hand to his chest, brushing his fingers down over the ridges of his ribcage where they poked none too discreetly.

A soft cry sighed past his lips. He knew appearance was not what made the Jedi, but…

He turned away from the mirror, now fogged with steam, and stepped into the shower stall. He ducked his head and the water beat down on his shoulders, massaging tense muscles. Pain flared briefly on still tender wounds but he did not dare move – he probably didn't have much time left. Lord Vuyis was gone for the day and had instructed him to clean himself and stay near to the quarters. _Their quarters._

Obi-Wan scowled; a hint of his nearly lost self returning. He had thought the man would never leave him alone. Vuyis touched him constantly, whether it was simply brushing his cheek, idling with his hair – Obi-Wan couldn't stand it any longer.

"I hate it," he whispered, unheard even to his own ears in the pounding water. A flutter of anxiety rose up in him as he uttered the unfamiliar word. But, he reasoned, if he couldn't hear the Force, perhaps it couldn't hear him.

He scrubbed fingers through his newly shorn hair. It was cropped so close he appeared completely bald from a far enough distance away. His braid was gone as well, of course. A finger to the bare spot behind his ear and he sighed lightly, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the hot spray. Bugs had been found in one slave's hair – he believed it had been Roark, actually – and consequently all slaves had their hair cut short. It felt strange at first, but he was getting used to it. His hair had grown a lot over the past few months, shagging out at the sides and curling lightly at the ends. But he was alone, now; at least there was that.

It seemed as if it had been years since he had any time to himself. Master Qui-Gon was nothing if not a private man, and awarded Obi-Wan the same time alone. The Padawan had at first been hurt by this, feeling more than a little rejected, but soon learned that he was luckier for it.

He missed having those opportunities.

A sharp thump at the door startled him and he peered, suddenly tense, through the misty glass pane of the shower door. The 'fresher door swung open and he hurried to turn the spray of water off before a man he recognized as Barlow Deevit barreled in. The man opened the shower door and wrapped a meaty hand around Obi-Wan's arm, jerking the boy out. The young Jedi slipped a little on the wet floor, water dripping down his body in fat rivulets, but he caught himself and waited rigidly for an explanation – or an order.

"Oi – You been long enough. Right? Too right." Deevit pointed to a towel, leering at the nude boy before saying, "Git dry, right? Your master'll be back in two shakes, no doubt; you best be ready. He's flamin' mad."

Obi-Wan fumbled with the cloth a little; it was softer than anything he had felt in a long while. He wished he wasn't being rushed so, but scrubbed it over his body quickly, trying to be as discreetly modest as possible. He wrapped it around his waist and held it there in a knot, straightening some and settling his gaze to the man's feet.

A pause before Deevit said anything, "Oi – You got clothes?"

When Obi-Wan spoke his voice was very soft, but clear. He had learned it was best to sound as submissive as possible. The more he let these people think of him as something akin to an old protocol 'droid, the less chance there was of him being tricked into punishment. "Only the ones in here," he nodded to the dirty pile on the floor. A moment's hesitation and he ventured further: "Is something wrong?"

Deevit sneered, "Too flamin' right there is. And you're master's got a temper more dangerous than a bantha's ass near a lighter." He nudged the lump with the toe of his boot and harrumphed. "These're right disgustin'. Lord Vuyis don't like disgustin', do he? No, sir." And he trumped out of the refresher, leaving Obi-Wan alone. "I'll git someone to find you somethin'," he sighed irritably.

Obi-Wan bent over to pick up his clothes, a little uneasy, wondering what the problem might be – and if it had anything to do with him.

*  *  *  *

Qui-Gon Jinn ran a hand over his now bare chin, sighing softly as he waited for the being he was to be contacted by. He sat straight in his seat, a glass of chilled ale he had ordered but not sipped waited at the center of the table. He rubbed one finger idly on its rim, his guarded gaze cast to the entrance.

And there was his man. Or, more specifically, his woman. She spotted him and weaved her way through the modest crowd to his table, pulling a chair out and seating herself at its edge.

"Alky," she said by way of introduction, not offering to expand on the name.

"Crion Dromus," Qui-Gon lied with a curt nod of his head.

Alky pulled out her knapsack and set it on the table, retrieving a datapad from it. She activated the tiny computer and set it before Qui-Gon. "These are all I have. They're listed there in numerical order."

"Numerical?" Qui-Gon scrolled through the information, face after face blinking onto the screen before he moved on to another.

"Yeah, doesn't matter. The numbers are for my records only. If you're looking for something specific…"

Qui-Gon nodded, fixing his attention back to her. "I want a boy," he said. "He – It needs to be a boy. Human basic."

Alky shrugged, taking the pad from him. When it was again set in his hands she had set it for his specifications. "Less to choose from," she warned, and settled more comfortably, slinging one arm over the back of her chair as she waited. Her hair was stark white and cut close to her head, making her face appear thin and long. Her skin was dark and tattooed; her body flat and without curves. One boot tapped evenly on the floor to a beat the Jedi could not hear.

Qui-Gon hunched over the datapad, pausing at each image to be sure. No Obi-Wan yet, but…

The pad beeped at him shrilly.

"That's all of'em," Alky said, leaning forward and bracing her bony elbows on the table. "You find anything you like?" She leered at him. Her teeth were filed down to sharp points.

Despondently Qui-Gon shook his head, falling against the back of his chair. "No…"

"Hm." Alky frowned. "You sure?" Slowly she put the pad back in her knapsack, as if inviting him to take another look if he wished.

"I'm sure. Thank you." Qui-Gon's focus returned to his glass of ale, the golden liquid trembled slightly from Alky's movements.

"Fine," the woman scowled, then shrugged, "But that's business." She stood and left him without another word.

Qui-Gon stared down at his hands. He pushed one through his mane of hair, and rose from his seat. He did not think as he moved out of the pub, through the streets, back to the docking yard where his ship waited. Never did the situation seem as bleak as it did these moments, when the hopes he hadn't consciously allowed himself to raise came crashing down.

Unclasping his dark cape and letting it fall to the floor, whooshing softly in its descent, he went to the cockpit, pulling out the durasheet and stylus with movements numb with their terrible familiarity.

*  *  *  *

"Outrageous," Lord Vuyis was saying, his voice sharp with anger, "I hired these people so this wouldn't happen."

Obi-Wan watched him fly about the office, tossing datapads and scanners to the center of the floor where the boy knelt. The Padawan watched the tantrum silently as always, his head bowed, hands clasped in his lap.

Vuyis fell silent as he scrolled through some information on a disk he had popped into his travel scanner. Obi-Wan watched as the man's features hardened to a stony fury. "I'm losing it all," the slave master whispered. He raised his head to stare blankly at the boy on the floor. "If I don't meet what's enough be the next quarter's quota soon…" He fell silent, looking grimly down at Obi-Wan. "I can't do this," he sighed, deflating a bit, "Not now." He moved to the window, peering out at his wide lawn, the gentle hills that hugged his estate.

He ejected the disk from his scanner, frowning a little at it before tossing it into the small garbage chute. "Won't do it, now," he said with fake cheeriness, "Can't, now." He turned to Obi-Wan and stepped to him, his colorful robes whispering softly on the polished wooden floor.

"We need a vacation, Pet," he said quietly, and Obi-Wan stood. The movement seemed to please his new master for the man clapped his hands together and exclaimed lightly, "You _are learning!" He lowered his voice, leaning in close, "Not that I wasn't completely satisfied with your performance last evening."_

Obi-Wan's face flushed hotly as he remembered how close he had come, how far the man's torturous touches almost went. The man's hand found his neck, fingered the studded collar there. The lost Padawan did not move away – avoiding the touches only brought pain. He could stand this. He _would stand this._

"You're almost ready," the man sighed happily.


	8. Sum of Parts

**The Long Drift: Sum of Parts**

Obi-Wan's whole world was the deafening thud of his heart, his breathing harsh and ragged to his ears, his feet pounding on the soft earthen forest floor. His hands were out in front of him, one tightly clasping a fork as he pushed thin branches out his way. He could only just hear voices behind him, yelling at him, demanding that he return.

Hah.

The entire situation was eerily similar to the one some few lifetimes ago back on Amund, when he had ran for what seemed to be days.

Any minute now, his implant could be activated. Obi-Wan didn't think Lord Vuyis would let him escape no matter h ow much his body seemed to be treasured. If he didn't get the device out soon he would die – but there was no going back. Obi-Wan just didn't want to be touched anymore. Since beginning his vacation Lord Vuyis seemed to be even more at ease with petting him, doing it freely whenever he was near.

He slowed, finally, and stopped, struggling to stifle his heaving breaths as he strained his ears for the sound of voices or footfall. They were far off, now. The lost Padawan crashed to his knees, holding the shining utensil out with scratched and sweaty hands. They trembled slightly and he uttered a harsh and nervous laugh. This was it.

The ache in his hand was unbearable, but Obi-Wan _knew where to cut. Without giving himself time to think further he stabbed the fork into his palm, at the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, issuing a sharp cry of pain at the jagged and terrible sting. Blood spilled forth immediately, as if it had somehow known what he was going to do and had only been waiting for the action to happen. Liquid crimson covered his hand, dripping down to the damp grass and leaves, blotting red on the thin fabric of his leggings. It was everywhere. Eating up the wrists and soft weave of his simple tunic. Obi-Wan's chin quivered and tears rolled down his cheeks as he forced himself to dig further, to ignore the hurt of it all._

"…been through worse," he gasped to himself, "Been through worse…" but let the soft keening come, deciding that it was too much to focus on not crying.

The fork slipped from his hand and he hunched over the forest floor, holding his wound out in front of him, trembling viciously now. Both hands were completely smeared with his blood, defining the identifying prints in his hands, making them more pronounced and easy to see, soft ridges in his flesh.

With his unhurt hand he went to dig further with his fingers, to find the blasted implant, but stopped when he glimpsed something pale move under all that blood and exposed meat. Obi-Wan's mouth fell open and his stomach heaved violently. A tiny but very fat worm wriggled up out of his hand, sliding down the slick skin and dropping to the dirt. Another followed.

*  *  *  *

"He's a Force user."

The words broke through the red haze and Obi-Wan stirred where he laid, memories of waking to a similar light flashing briefly through his mind. A hand touched his leg and he fell still obediently, keeping his eyes shut against the world but listening keenly.

"We only caught one of the grubs. Is that enough?"

"That son of a Hutt didn't tell me he was a Force user!"

"Sir…"

"Enough if we keep him under. Buy more."

Hesitation. Then: "Is he dangerous?"

"Hah!" The hand moved up his thigh, rubbing absently. "He's harmless. What happened this afternoon was just a… a fluke. It wouldn't be the first time one of them tried to escape."

"They weren't put in properly, sir. He should never have known where they were."

"Put them in right, then, you dunce."

"Sir, there's only _one! I have no clue where we might get more… they must be extremely difficult to come by."_

And then a new voice broke through, quiet in the thickening stillness: "Not to mention expensive, my lord." Obi-Wan opened his eyes to slits, peering groggily up at the men standing over him. Vuyis' treasurer was there, and Obi-Wan would have wondered why if he didn't feel so tired. "You're estate is in trouble, Lord Vuyis," the man went on, gently reminding the slave master. "You cannot afford to entertain such a costly pet. There are much more urgent matters that demand your complete attention – as well as priority in your account."

Silence followed the man's words, a slight, whooshing sigh from Vuyis the only sound breaking it. Later, Obi-Wan could only assume that he had fallen asleep because when he was next jerked to consciousness it was to the feel of his loose pants being tugged down his hips.

With a cry he grabbed their hem, pain stabbing through his hand and giving him reason to let out a howl.

"W…what're you doing?!" It was all too dark; Lord Vuyis always kept the lights on. He tried again: "Lord Vuyis? Sir?"

The agony in his hand had helped pull him out of his groggy state and he realized he was surrounded by warm, squirming bodies, voices, and a stench that nearly clouded all his other senses. Obi-Wan's uninjured hand shot to his throat, feeling the studded collar still there, and something else…

Someone's hot, repugnant breath washed over his face and he could just barely make out a thick head moving back away from him with a soft grunt, fading into the hordes of what could only be other slaves. They were on a ship, he realized, a transport. Where they were going he had no idea.

Thoughts of Roark and Spyre flitted through his mind – were they here, too? He knew he could call for them… but, no. His throat hurt terribly, they probably wouldn't hear… He felt, sinking back into the bodies around him, eyes going half mast, that it hardly mattered, now, anyway. Whether he knew where he was going or not, he would get there all the same.

There was an incessant murmuring present, but Obi-Wan could sense no one close to him speaking. _Ah, well... His uninjured hand still gripping the hem of his pants he tentatively sought out a connection with the Force, but found he could access it no better than he had been able to before he cut himself._

Just not his day…

*  *  *  *

Obi-Wan stared straight ahead at the wall some few centimeters from his nose. His hands were planted palms flat against it and he could easily hear the hacking coughs of an elderly slave a few men down. They were all lined up outside and as much as he tried Obi-Wan could hear no birds chirp. The sun was a glaring cruel white spot in the sky, closer than the boy had ever seen one before. He had been outside in this position for maybe thirty minutes and knew his shoulders and back were going to pay for it later.

They were all stripped to the waist and miserable in the terrible heat. Obi-Wan stared at a tiny crack in the plaster, wondering if it were any cooler inside the dark niche. The wound on his hand, injured from his messy operation in the forest, had been sewn shut albeit sloppily. Red easily blotted through the strip of gauze covering it. A sweaty palm gripped his shoulder suddenly, startling him – he hadn't even heard the cry of the man beside him – and seconds later a sharp pain exploded in his lower back, just above his left hip. Obi-Wan cried out, thick tears springing to his eyes and rolling down his face in fat salty drops, pattering softly down to the ground that begged for moisture.

"This one's tagged," a man called, and then Obi-Wan felt a hand touch the studded leather collar around his neck. "Oi… someone was fond've him."

"What's that there?" another wanted to know as the hand fingered the thin but heavy circle of machinery circled around his throat. "By Yetzi – he's a Force user. I don't recall seeing that in the books."

"Huh," the first man grunted, dropping his hand away and moving on. "Be sure to make note of it, then… Let's get this group assigned and move on to the females."


	9. Sedation

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and stuck with this story so far – reasons for such erratic posting have been technical; my disk broke. :o( I do believe we're almost through, though. And, yes, the mush is soon. Patience, young grasshopper. :D

**The Long Drift: Sedation**

They had made it past the line of bushes, planted as a cheerful reminder to all "kept servants" that they were approaching forbidden territory.  
   
Forbidden without the presence of a master, supervisor, or pass.  
  
Obi-Wan was all too aware that neither he nor Roark had any of them. Together they streaked across the lawn, staring hungrily at the East End gates – the exit.  
  
The exit! Never had such a thing meant so much. The exit to this compound of humiliation, this place of misery. The exit to the beatings and the demeaning, toilsome work that never ceased in coming.  
  
Obi-Wan imagined that he could see the man on the other side, waiting to meet them. He imagined he could see that wonderful device that would locate the chips in their bodies "in no time at all." He even imagined he could see a glint of moonlight reflecting off the knife that would slice open their soft flesh and the pliers which would pluck the harmful chips from their bodies – and was fiercely happy. He didn't even allow a moment's thought to dwell on the fact that Spyre had refused to go with them – it was suicide, she said.  
  
"Almost there, Roark!" he gasped, noting how out of breath he was. He had not run in a very long time. His muscles had begun to deteriorate since he had been taken, and he had lost weight.   
  
That certainly wouldn't last for much longer! His heart swelled as he thought of training again with his master – how long had it been since he had seen Qui-Gon? Ah, it didn't matter. He'd be back home soon! The other boy only nodded his response, also out of breath.   
  
So close and no one had noticed they were gone. So close and within days Obi-Wan would be back at the temple. Excitement at that thought urged him to run faster. He simply could not _stand another day in this Force-forsaken place…  
  
Light – blinding and white – suddenly knifed through the darkness and flooded the grounds. Roark was so startled that he tripped and fell. Obi-Wan pivoted, running back to help the fallen boy, and saw a crowd of armed supervisors chasing after them.   
  
"Roark! Get up!" He crashed to his knees beside the boy, tugging insistently on the other's arm. "They're coming! We can still make it!"  
  
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Roark was saying, scrambling to his knees. "My ankle hurts! Oh shit, oh shit –!" Obi-Wan helped him to his feet, but on the first step Roark gave a sharp yelp and collapsed, pulling the young Jedi down with him.  
  
Obi-Wan threw a glance to the gate and with the new light really __could see the man that would have saved them – for the promise of a hefty reward once Obi-Wan found Qui-Gon. The Padawan blanched as he caught sight of the man hastily climbing into a small brown speeder.  
  
"No!" he shouted, despair edging his words, "We can make it!" His heart slammed up against his ribs, blood roared in his ears. He jumped to his feet.  
  
"Obi!" Roark cried, "Don't go!" He had a firm grip on the Jedi's ankle, brown eyes wide with terror. "Please don't leave me!"  
  
Obi-Wan saw the speeder glide away into the night and, hearing the shouts of their pursuers, knew it was fruitless to continue the escape. One step outside the compound and their chips would surely be activated.  
  
"Obi, please," Roark moaned, eyes latched onto the angry group rapidly approaching. "What do we do? What do we do __now? I can't go back."  
  
Roark's eyes swiveled back to the sad face of the other boy. "I can't. Obi-Wan!"  
  
When Obi-Wan responded he was very calm, very sober. No use in worrying. He felt a sense of detachment gnawing at him and he opened himself to it. He knew they would be punished severely – better to feel nothing.  
  
"There's nothing we can do, Roark. Our help left," he said softly.  
  
It had taken five weeks to set this up. Five weeks of secret transmissions, sneaking about the grounds to acquire information, conducting short and frank meetings behind the kitchen where the hum of the energy core would drown out their words to any listeners. Five weeks of planning, mapping out the route of their escape, prepping Roark. Five weeks for it to blow up in their faces.  
   
"I can't go back," Roark whispered and Obi-Wan was struck with how he sounded so much like a lost, frightened child. "I can't do it anymore. It's too much –" The rest of his words were choked off.  
  
Obi-Wan looked down at his friend with compassion._

  
"I'm so sorry, Obi," Roark whispered, sincerely and achingly honest.  
  
Obi-Wan managed a wan smile before shrugging his shoulders. He began to tell Roark that they would simply run faster next time, try it without falling, when he realized with a sick shiver that his friend was not finished.   
  
The men were upon them now, and they hoisted the two slaves to their feet. Only Obi-Wan saw Roark's slender fingers reach for the blaster holstered to one man's side. A tug was all it took for the man to backhand the boy and unholster his weapon.  
  
A cry of disbelief rang from Obi-Wan's lips as his friend was shot dead. He jerked away but they easily wrestled him to the ground, liberally punching and cuffing him. He was pressed onto his belly on the rust colored dirt with one man's knee digging painfully into his lower back. He thought it odd how much the color of the dirt resembled the pigment of Roark's hair. How could he never have noticed? His hands were tied and a collar was fitted too tightly around his neck.  
  
Obi-Wan did not struggle or offer up any protest. He only stared into the blank and glazed brown eyes of his friend. Roark had lived in desolation his entire life, but accepted the light of hope – a hope which, Obi-Wan painfully realized, he had provided – and paid for it.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
The sun was occupying the spot in the sky directly above him. What was that called?  
  
My zenith, Master Shen. Zenith…  
  
Obi-Wan's head lolled to the side and he stared blankly up at the sky.  
  
_Don't look into the sun, Kenobi. You'll burn those lovely eyes.  
  
"Sorry," he mumbled.  
  
__You'll go blind. Do you want to go blind? Don't look!  
  
Obi-Wan jerked and let his head fall limply forward, chin bouncing against his broken collarbone. He stared at the dirt, the red and blue spots that danced about on its red-brown surface. He closed his eyes and they were still there.  
  
When he opened them again he saw that the sun had moved a good distance across the sky. Obi-Wan remembered not to stare.  
  
"Almost dark," he muttered to no one.  
  
__Everything's an almost with you.__  
  
"Almost wasn't a Jedi," he agreed out loud, dimly wondering where the scratchiness in his voice had come from.  
  
__You might not be one anymore. You might not…  
  
Obi-Wan shook his head. "Almost!" He frowned. "Always – I meant to say…"  
  
__Slaves can't be Jedi. How many masters do you expect to have?  
  
One. Always one. Almost…  
  
__Three.__ One for the body, two for the soul, three to get head, and –   
  
Head?  
  
__Put that mouth to use!  
  
"Augh…" Obi-Wan twisted in the ropes that held him upright.  
  
__Obi-Wan, you're not alone.  
  
I miss Qui-Gon!  
  
__Obi-Wan, please!  
  
"My skin…"  
  
__Obi! Don't go! Please don't leave me…  
  
"It's on fire!"_

  
_I don't want another Padawan.  
  
"I'm on fire! Help…! Oh, help me!" Tears of terror and confusion streamed down the dry and sun burnt skin of his face. His head swam and his vision darkened.  
  
Obi-Wan finally opened his eyes again. His body shook uncontrollably. It was dark. Fear nipped at the edges of his awareness. What was wrong with him? He could not stop the violent shaking.  
  
A chilly draft bit into his warm skin, cruel and icy in its touch.  
  
__Cold.  
  
What?  
  
__You're cold! Little fool.  
  
Obi-Wan bit back a sob. The nights here were so icy, such a drastic change from the grueling heat of the day. His back was stiff and aching against the wooden wall they had tied him to; he was sure splinters were embedding themselves deeply into his already raw flesh.  
  
A weak groan sounded from his belly, begging nourishment.  
  
__Without water a human can last… Initiate Kenobi?  
  
Five standard days!  
  
__No!  
  
Obi-Wan faltered, thought he heard someone snicker. His brow furrowed. "…four?"  
  
__You don't work hard enough.  
  
I do my best!  
__  
You're not good enough.  
  
Obi-Wan returned to a troubled unconsciousness._


	10. There, in the Back

"Is that all you wanted? Sir?" Nico bit the inside of her cheek when the man finally turned his attention to her. He regarded her silently, his pale blue eyes cloudy and dazed, as if he had just woken from a deep slumber. He shook himself finally and offered her a brief and apologetic smile. Nico could not help but notice that it did not reach the tired eyes. She returned it anyway, grateful for a response of any kind.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was deep but soft; weary. He looked up at her in helpless entreaty. "

"Is that all?" she repeated gently."Oh." He stared down at the plate of food before him, appearing vaguely surprised to see it. He nodded slowly, "Yes – Thank you." The man hesitated, as if about to make an inquiry, but only gave a minute shake of his head and said, "That will be all."

"Right." Nico loudly cleared her throat. "Whenever you're done, just holler. I'll total it up for you." Not expecting a response, she spun on her heel to leave the man to his supper.

"Wait!" he suddenly cried, and Nico nearly jumped at the volume and suddenness of it. She turned back to face him, eyebrows raised. He was halfway out of his chair and there was a certain note of desperation in his voice and demeanor that gave her pause. "Do you…" He fell back into his seat, blank gaze roaming the room. "Do you know of any business or person in the area who might trade in – sentient beings?" He could not bring himself to say the word, that tiny, destructive little word—

"You mean slaves?" Nico hid her disgust well. She had hoped that this gentle looking outsider, at least, was in the locale for more legitimate reasons.

The man hesitated but affirmed her question with a curt nod. She noticed his pale blue eyes had hardened slightly, were not so exhausted looking.

Nico said yes. This was not an unusual question. With a heavy sigh she plowed on.

"What are you looking for?"

The man answered immediately, "Young male. Human basic."

"How young?"

"Mid to late teens."

"Girveaux Sector. Transport 63 heading east." One manicured nail directed the man's gaze out the window to the transport pick-up across the road. "They'll have what you're looking for." Nico's tone was of forced indifference, icily so. "Enjoy your meal." She walked away from the man before any further questions were made. In doing so, she missed the hope pooling in those tired blue eyes, the slight squaring of those broad shoulders, the shaky intake of shallow breath.

When the man finally regained his appetite his food had cooled considerably. He spooned all of it into his mouth without noticing, paid for his meal, and left.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn had walked this path through the Girveaux Sector perhaps eight times in the last two hours, trying to expend at least some of the seemingly limitless energy brought on by his anxiety. He had done nothing productive since being directed to this small business tucked deep into the city.

He knew from experience it was better to wait until after sunset before going in to conduct business. Qui-Gon had spent the better part of four hours weaving in and out of small auctions and waiting for dusk. Now that it had arrived the familiar tightening in his stomach was present as he headed down the long alley to his destination. He clenched his hands in the dark fabric of his tunic, hoping to rid his palms of their sudden dampness. He breathed deeply, pausing at the entrance to the small building. When his head cleared and his heart slowed its rapid beating he stepped inside.

He was immediately met with a sharp, rancid odor. The dim lighting inside did little to hide the excessive grime and dirt coating the floor and walls. His gaze did not linger in any one area but floated continually over the room's shady occupants before finally settling on a tubby looking man bent over a console.

Qui-Gon approached the man. "Are you the owner?"

The man looked up, took stock of Qui-Gon's clean clothing, his natural austerity, and nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes! Xarek here to serve you, of course. You like to buy?"

The disguised Jedi merely nodded.

Xarek's lips peeled back into a wide, ravenous looking smile, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. "This way," he said, and scuttled down the corridor. Qui-Gon followed, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest in a gesture similar to one he would take up while wearing his cloak. They instead swung easily at his sides and he kept his gaze focused on a large mole dotting the back of Xarek's balding head. He remained aloof to the man's babbling."We are backed up on the stock right now, three shipments just this month. You never believe how much the cost to handle these boys." Xarek led him past door after door, some firmly shut, some standing ajar. A steady moaning filled the corridor, making the hairs on the back of Qui-Gon's neck stand on end.

"We must watch them when they eat," Xarek continued in broken basic, "or they rip the food from each other's mouths. I might not care if they starve to death – that's the less I must worry for – but I need them sold. Who wants dead slave?" He stopped and opened a door, shaking his head. "You wait here. I bring in boys for you."

Qui-Gon stepped inside the empty room and noted that it was almost worse in smell and appearance than the rest of the building. He concentrated on keeping his focus and reminded himself that Obi-Wan could very well be somewhere else entirely. Tatooine sounded promising; he had yet to look there.

A side door opened and a crowd of some of the filthiest human boys the Jedi had ever seen tumbled in, some looking so fatigued that he thought they might drop to the floor at any moment. Scars on their bodies told of a lifetime of pains but Qui-Gon kept his composure, waiting patiently while Xarek unnecessarily raised his tinny voice at them. The slaver prodded and slapped the boys until they had stilled into one exhausted group, twelve sets of empty eyes warily watching the disguised Jedi.

"There. In the back."

Xarek peered into the small crowd of human boys. He sighed. They all looked alike to him. Dirty bodies, brown with filth, all skinny arms and legs. Most were about the same height. "Which one?"

"In the back," the buyer repeated, sounding vaguely annoyed. "On the floor."

Xarek pushed aside a few of the slaves, bowling over those who were not quick enough to move and spotted the one his customer wanted. He spared a quick glance at the man to see if he was terribly agitated; usually the Seatanth was quite adept at catching other beings' moods, but then again – this man was quite different.

He was very tall, not to mention intimidating. He was dressed in a tailored black tunic with matching leggings, his boots were of the finest leather – even Xarek, who had spent his entire life in the darkened back streets of the Girveaux Sector, could tell that. The man had long and graying hair, piercing pale blue eyes, and a broken, hawkish looking nose. His countenance was stern and somber, Xarek could not recall one smile cracking the sober, clean shaven visage during the entire transaction.

"Ah," Xarek said, grabbing the boy by one skinny bicep and jerking him to his feet. He dragged the slave forward. "Not very healthy. He sick when he come to me. What about this?" he offered, dropping the first slave and grabbing another. The first boy, with no any support, sank to his knees.

"No," his customer said quickly, urgency coloring his words. He stepped forward. Xarek watched as the man kneeled before the fallen boy, gently lifting the slave's chin.  
Curious, he thought. The man seemed so strict – choosy was the word (this was the fourth bunch he had seen) – yet he was being so gentle – Xarek would even venture to say tender! – with this fragile looking boy.

"This is exactly what I'm looking for," his customer breathed, not taking his eyes from the boy's face.

Xarek immediately named a price nearly twice what the weakling was worth and wished he had gone higher when the man didn't even bother with bargaining.

"Prepare the papers," was all he said. "I'm taking him right away."

* * *

He had promised himself he would control his emotions. Simple enough – for a Jedi.

He had assured himself that he would not be surprised. He had searched so many brothels, so much "human stock", attended so many slave auctions, seen and freed so many young boys that he was positive nothing could shock him further. But this –

This.

This skinny, filthy, quivering bundle he held almost effortlessly in his arms was enough to break his worn heart. The boy's head was cradled against his right shoulder and the heat he felt radiating off the bruised and dirty face through his tunic was enough to quicken his heart beat alone.

Qui-Gon raced through the evening crowds of the Girveaux Sector, where just that morning he had projected such calm. But he had not been holding Obi-Wan then; he had not even honestly believed he would find the boy here. It had always been such futile hope.

He looked down again. He could not seem to keep from continually glancing down at that beloved face. He saw two glazed eyes studying him. His heart leapt and he flashed a worried smile.

"We're almost there, Padawan."

Padawan. That word had never held so much meaning in it before – relief, caring, concern, love – he wanted to say it again. "I missed you, Padawan."

Obi-Wan nodded slightly, as if in agreement with something and his eyes fell shut. Qui-Gon clutched him tighter.

Oh, but the boy was frail! Qui-Gon felt as though he might crush his precious load by merely holding him. He ran swiftly across the permacrete of the near empty docking platform, wondering why he had set the ship down so far back. When he finally did reach it, the ramp opened too slowly for him. And then they were on the ship, down the corridor, into one of two tiny compartments. He pulled back tightly tucked sheets and lowered his apprentice to the sleep couch, finding himself reluctant to let go.

Obi-Wan's eyes opened once more and he watched the master warily. His silence worried the older man. Unconsciously, he folded a hand around one of Obi-Wan's, looking down at the boy in bewilderment.

The young Jedi's eyes held a certain wounded, bruised look to them, shadowed as they were. His cheeks were hollowed and thin, the lingering baby fat Qui-Gon remembered was completely gone.

And his ribs! The Jedi could count them easily. The toned, lean musculature his Padawan had worked so hard to achieve had all but disappeared over the course of five long months.

It was obvious to Qui-Gon that his apprentice had been severely abused, aside from the astonishing loss of weight. Many wounds, both old and recent, adorned the youth's body. The master was at a loss as to what he should do first – Let Obi-Wan rest? Bathe him? Clean his injuries? Never let him out of sight?He felt he could handle the last well enough.

"Your beard."

Qui-Gon started at the voice – he had not heard it in so long.

"What, my Padawan?" he responded kneeling at the boy's bedside to be closer. He brushed dirty and overgrown ginger hair away from the apprentice's face. Obi-Wan seemed to shrink away slightly under the master's eager stare. His eyes flitted away, welling with apprehension.

"I thought – that is, you used to – " He stopped, trying to make his muddled mind think properly. A shiver wracked through his slight frame.

"I shaved it off, Padawan." Oh, he never wanted to stop using that word! "I needed a new look for this planet – only the very poor grow beards. Some of the – establishments – I searched would not have granted me access had I not gotten rid of it." He absently stroked the boy's cheek with his thumb, silent for a long moment. "I never stopped searching, Obi-Wan," he said softly, needing the boy – his boy – to know.

The youth drew in a sharp breath at the use of his name by that voice. Obi-Wan felt a flicker of warmth, which only served as a reminder of the greater emptiness within.

"The Force," he said, meeting the older man's gaze again, "I haven't been able to touch it since…"

"Sh," Qui-Gon quieted him, "I know, child. I know." He had assumed those beasts would drug his apprentice, or use some other sort of Force suppressant such as a collar or wristband. He had so looked forward to touching his student's mind once more – but the link would not be made. He felt sure the drugs would wear off soon.

Pressing his palm flat just above the boy's heart, he sent warm pulses of energy to Obi-Wan. The youth gave a quick, abortive shake of his head to tell the man no, it was not drugs, but could then only squeeze his eyes shut and arch into the touch, letting the warmth of the Force fill him. He could not access it by himself – but this was nearly just as good. The strength of the pulses gradually died and finally stopped coming altogether. Obi-Wan looked up at his master – his real master – tears of thanks pooling in the blue-green depths of his eyes. He could not find the words to express his gratitude.

Qui-Gon smiled gently at him, the man's hand was a warm and comforting weight on his thin chest.

"I don't think I can…" Obi-Wan trailed off and shrugged helplessly, a strange lump filling his throat. Fat tears rolled down the sides of his face and disappeared into the pillow. Qui-Gon wordlessly gathered the boy into his arms while the Padawan wept. A tightness spread from the master's own broad chest to his throat, and a curious stinging tickled his eyes. The slim body in his embrace trembled and shook with the release, and when Obi-Wan's weeping died away they both stayed there unmoving for quite some time.


End file.
